Your Unemployed Daughter

shoes, aka, WMDs

Perhaps the worst thing about getting fired (ahem, laid off!) is the other (employed) people thinking the event has been so devastating that you’ve taken to your couch in tears, or worse, aren’t getting out of bed at all … that you are self-medicating (whiskey? Klonopin? Cutting yourself with the sharp edges of your severance agreement?) among pizza boxes and your own human detritus … that, in fact, you’ve suffered something so near death that they can only look at you with lowered, basset hound eyes, pat you on the shoulder, and whisper “Sorry” in low tones when you face them in the bar. (Aside: How many of these people have bought me a drink? Priorities, puhleaze! If I needed a therapist, I’d pay one.)

The worst fear in these well-meaning but misguided souls’ minds is that you, dear Unemployed Personage, will NEVER fully recover your lost earning potential and that you just might take matters into your own hands and be done with it all. Bullshit! Their worst fear, actually, is that they’ll be next. That’s why they have that hangdog expression when you get near, are prone to hugs and cliches, and leave the party early claiming “work the next day” under their breath. The truth: They’re not so sure they want to be associated with the taint of the unemployed. They can smell you (so can I – just cause you’re not working doesn’t mean you don’t need a little reg soap & water, hon).

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It has come to my attention that Your Unemployed Daughter has never fully explained the situation that has made her unemployed, or given any details/proof as to that fact. Part of this is because, dear reader(s), the two (dare I say, three?) of you looking at this know exactly what happened. The other more scandalous part is that for the past 10 days of my unemployment I have been pondering whether or not to sign my severance agreement, which promises a rather paltry sum (1 week’s pay) upon my agreeing to a detailed and extensive non-disclosure agreement.

One week’s pay. Before taxes, that’s something like the cost of these shoes. Which could be mine, all mine (or maybe I’d just pay my rent) if I sign away my right to write anything whatsoever – scribblings in a notebook, a letter to an old professor, a post-it on a car window, a BLOG – disclosing anything whatsoever, truthful or not, negative or positive, well-written or poorly crafted (please, give the copy editor some credit) about my former employer, my experience with my former employer, or anything I may have learned or experienced in any relation to my former employer. (In fact, in a delightful little piece by Jeff Bercovici, the legality of such an extensive NDA is questioned in itself.)

Your Unemployed Daughter has come to the conclusion that this is a cost too great, or a fee to small, at any rate. And those shoes aren’t really practical for the beach or the coffeeshop. So it is in this post that I break free from the shackles of NDAs everywhere and say, “Suck it, Corporate Entity.” I cannot be bought for less than a month’s severance.

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I’m not one of those annoying sky-is-falling people who think that magazines are all going the way of the horse and carriage and that the next few decades will find us hopelessly fat and Wall-E’d, hovered around on little wheelie-buggies reading screens rather than turning pages.

Although as Your Unemployed Daughter I dislike the supply and demand problem created by dying mags, I can’t complain when some of them fold – they seem to be asking for it. But there are others – the Jimi Hendrixes and James Deans of the publishing community – that, if I had my druthers, wouldn’t have choked on their own vomit quite so soon.

A little shout-out to some fallen comrades:

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an East Village street, 5:30 p.m., Wednesday

Last night, I enjoyed drinks al fresco with some former coworkers. It was a balmy 80-some degrees, perfect for street-watching and beer drinking at an outdoor cafe I’d never have snagged a table at had I gotten out of work at 8 p.m. (Had I, in fact, been Your Employed Daughter.) To one side sat a table of bankerish types in baseball caps and polo shirts discussing COBRA and the benefits of moving home to Jersey. On the other were some smoking East Villagers who generously shared a light with my former EIC and discussed the proper amount of space one should give between tables and smoking area. At one point, a fellow in a pink button-down offered us a dollar for a cigarette. I said, “Can you make it $2? We’re unemployed!” His response: “So am I!” And the former hedge fund manager got a Parliament for free.

Oh, 2009! How you’ve evened our playing field. Unemployment: bringing douchebags and media types together at last!

Hi Mom and Dad,

This is Your Unemployed Daughter. Um, I have some news. [[Pauses, waits for pickup.]]

Okay, by the fact that you’re not answering, I assume you’re off bike riding or kayaking or sitting on somebody’s lanai sipping martinis (or, if that’s you listening, Dad, red wine). It IS 6 p.m. Well, don’t let me disturb you! I bet the weather is great in Florida. I just wanted to let you know, um … I’ve been fired.

[[In background: a shriek, muffled voices, glasses meeting in a toast]]

Oh, yeah, so I’m at the bar right now. [[Gulps]] Sorry, tequila shots!

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The message light is on, but no one is home.